


Breath of a Fish

by picturecat



Series: Breath of a Fish: A Witch’s Guide to Wild Magic [1]
Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Historical AU - Early/Mid 2000s, M/M, Magic, Magical Realism, Misunderstandings, lots of plants in this folks sorry not sorry, yeah i said what i said
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24871513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturecat/pseuds/picturecat
Summary: Their relationship was courteous, as it must be for any two witches who had no interest in feuding with one another properly. But to someone he could trust not to repeat his words, Steve often complained that Stark was basically a warlock, the way he carried on with esoteric nonsense and ignoring the needs of the people. For his part, Steve had no idea what Stark’s objection to him was. He knew only that the man so obviously delighted in teasing Steve that the people of their town regularly placed bets on when they expected them to come to blows.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Breath of a Fish: A Witch’s Guide to Wild Magic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818793
Comments: 25
Kudos: 110
Collections: Stony Loves Steve 2020





	Breath of a Fish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheron/gifts).



> Okay! This is an AU where they're witches. I kind of nod to Pratchett's "Equal Rites" in that here, being a witch or a warlock or whatever is about the type of magic you have, not your gender. There's a lot of little rules to this world I've made that I don't necessarily explain, so feel free to comment if you find something too confusing.
> 
> The only made up plant in this story is fableflower.

Steve Rogers and Tony Stark were alike in one—and perhaps  _ only _ one—way: despite being witches, they both deeply disapproved of using magic wherever work would suffice just as well. 

In this way they also shared a tendency to alienate their customer base. Anyone who wandered into Steve’s modest little white two-story hoping for a love potion or amorous tincture got a very stern lecture instead; those who made an appointment at the Stark estate aiming to procure a powerful curse were rebuffed by Stark’s astoundingly rude automatons.

Their relationship was courteous, as it must be for any two witches who had no interest in feuding with one another properly. But to someone he could trust not to repeat his words, Steve often complained that Stark was basically a warlock, the way he carried on with esoteric nonsense and ignoring the needs of the people. For his part, Steve had no idea what Stark’s objection to him was. He knew only that the man so obviously delighted in teasing Steve that the people of their town regularly placed bets on when they expected them to come to blows.

Steve wanted desperately to avoid that, and so he took pains to avoid Stark. This was luckily not too hard—Steve’s house was on the edge of the woods on the west side of town, on a winding path out of the way of everything else. The Stark estate was 15 acres on the east side of town; which is to say, it  _ was _ the east side of town. Main Street culminated in the gated drive to Stark mansion, which perched gaily just around the curve of a distant hill, giving citizens a benevolent glimpse of its glory. 

Steve spent most of his time at the community center, teaching art classes or leading nature hikes. Stark, as far as he knew, rarely descended from on high at all, letting his automatons manage deliveries to the mansion. There were two exceptions: town hall meetings, which Stark studiously attended for the sole purpose of making distracting remarks, and Steve’s monthly full moon nature hikes, which Stark attended for the sole purpose of tormenting Steve. 

Or so Steve thought, anyway. Stark was always quick with an excuse.

“I wouldn’t miss our little assignations under the moonlight for anything, darling,” he drawled. “What kind of witch would I be if I didn’t spend every full moon, ah… reconnecting with the magic of nature?”

Stark followed up by poking a plant with his ridiculously unsuitable loafers. 

He reached down to touch the plant with his bare hand and Steve, quite despite himself, snatched Stark’s hand by the wrist to stop him. 

“Everyone come have a look,” Steve called to the rest of the group, just barely restraining the urge to grit his teeth. The other hikers circled around. 

“This is stinging nettle,” he said firmly. “It has many uses, from food to fertilizer, but as you may have guessed it also has a severely irritating sting, thanks to those little white hairs you see. This plant, along with the thriving patch of poison ivy growing around it, is an excellent example of why we  _ don’t touch unfamiliar plants _ .” 

He gave Stark a pointed look as he dropped his hand, but Stark, of course, was irrepressible. He fluttered infuriatingly long lashes at Steve. 

“My hero,” he cooed. 

Stark never missed a hike. 

* * *

It so happened that in the dry season of the summer there was a terrible wildfire. Steve handled it himself, placing charms to prevent the flames from jumping and directing the other volunteers to dig trenches and clear brush. Stark, of course, did nothing. 

The fire eventually burned out, helped along by an unseasonable rainstorm that blew in from the east. Unfortunately it wiped out the forest’s most prolific patch of fableflower, mere weeks before it would have been harvestable, and barely three months before it would be sorely needed to treat flashfever in the fall and winter. 

Steve’s own stores were very low. Although he had plenty of seeds, he knew they would never be mature in time to be harvested by winter. The Stark estate, on the other hand, was well known for a diverse and richly propagated garden which certainly included even the most obscure of magical flora. 

Steve would have to prevail upon Stark for mercy.

“It’s Stark’s duty to help the town just as much as it is mine,” Steve said firmly into his mirror, dressing in his best hat and robes. They were a bit formal—and, in a deep sapphire blue, not exactly traditional—but they were the most suitable set he owned for calling upon another witch with whom he was not exactly friendly.

He took a deep breath. “He’s going to say yes. It’s his duty,” he repeated. 

“Quite right, dear,” the mirror said sniffly.

The phone called out to Steve before he reached his front door. 

“You had better call ahead, young man,” it said. “Very formal, those Starks.”

So Steve returned to the kitchen, digging the phone book out of the scrap drawer. Stark was listed just after Steve himself, underneath the “Magic, Misc.” heading. 

He took the phone off of the wall hook and left the book to hover so he could glance at it while he dialed, double-checking every few digits. His heart was beating a little fast. 

“Stark Residence,” an English accent said. “With what may we assist you?”

“This is Steve Rogers. I’m calling because I intend to drop in to speak with Mr. Stark, and want to be sure he’s available.”

“Hmm,” the voice said. “Is the nature of this visit personal or professional?”

“Uh. Professional.” Steve realized he had wrapped the phone cord around his finger and quickly untangled it. 

“Pity,” the voice said dryly, and before Steve could ask what it meant by that, the voice continued. “Mr. Stark is available, if you arrive very presently. You will be announced. Good day, sir.”

The line clicked, and Steve leaned away from the phone with a very frazzled exhalation. He put the landline back in the wall hook, taking care not to tangle the cord.

“Alright, very presently, then,” Steve muttered to himself. He’d rather been planning on walking to give himself more time to think, but if speed was any concern then he’d better take his motorcycle.

A bike was also patently untraditional for a witch, but Steve had never seen Stark on a broomstick. Quite frankly, he had trouble imagining it. 

The motorcycle certainly flew just as well as any broom. And it was shinier, besides.

However, he wasn’t going to fly it today, and that meant he had to set a good example. He folded his hat and robe into the saddlebag as neatly as he could, exchanging them for a leather jacket and helmet, and set out down the road. 

The dirt path away from the woods was a pleasure to drive as always, hilly and curved and dotted with black-eyed susans and coneflowers and thistle. Steve took the curves at well over the speed limit, kicking up clouds of reddish dirt. He smiled against the buffeting wind. 

He slowed down once he reached the city limit and the dirt path turned abruptly into cobblestone, which was quite probably the most irritating thing to drive on in the world. He juddered along at 25 miles per hour, waving at a gaggle of kids he knew from his art class. 

The gate to the Stark estate was as massively ostentatious as ever: wrought iron split into two gates, with massive iron runespells for Protection on the left gate and Prosperity on the right. All of it was spaced by brick posts and twined with sweet pea and moonflower. 

Steve buzzed the intercom. 

“Mgr. Rogers?” that same English voice asked. 

Steve’s lips thinned. “It’s just mister, actually.” Steve had never completed his magistery, having been forced to drop out to take care of his mother. Stark had completed seven.

The voice sniffed. “My mistake.”

Yes, of course it was, Steve thought sourly. 

The gates opened smoothly, without the squeal of rusted metal or misaligned hinges. Steve remounted his bike and revved it, speeding uphill as the gates closed just as silently behind him. 

The road was paved with massive flagstones, a much smoother ride than the cobblestone all throughout the town. It was edged on either side with pea gravel paths containing catmint and sandwort, and, every now and then, massive agave plants. 

Steve roared up to the entrance. He dismounted, looking around as he traded in his motorcycle gear for his robes and hat (now slightly crinkled). Stark mansion was so stunning Steve couldn’t even be grudging in his admiration; Steve was no expert in architecture, but he was sure Stark mansion would please one. It was all red brick and Gothic arches, with gorgeous stained glass in the windows. 

Steve was far more entranced by the plants. 

Moonflower and clematis shared massive iron trellises and ultimately climbed over a glass and iron veranda, draping down the other side as fragrant jasmine reached up to meet them. Steve inhaled deeply as he stepped into the shade the vines provided and caught a hint of gardenia, too. Sure enough—he glimpsed several bushes around the corner of an alcove in the brick. 

Someone carefully tended the potted garden on the veranda. The plants here were all herbs partial to shade— tarragon and bergamot, some slightly leggy lemon balm. Even some stinging nettle, Steve noted with a quirked eyebrow. 

Steve rubbed a leaf of mountain mint and inhaled the sharp scent, trying to relax. No one with this many plants could be  _ that _ unbearable. 

Right?

The doors were massive, heavy carved wood with stained windows arching to a point above them. Steve knocked using an iron door knocker in the shape of a rose. 

“Rogers, correct?” the door asked. 

“Yes. Mr. Steve Rogers,” he added.

The doors swung open. “A Mr. Steve Rogers, here to speak with Mgr. Stark,” the door announced. 

Steve stepped inside and shifted awkwardly, trying not to gawk at the vaulted ceilings or the brick mosaic floors or the clustered, arched windows spilling sunlight everywhere. He was  _ not _ here to get swept away by fancy brick placement, he reminded himself sternly. 

“Oh good! You’re here.”

That was Stark. Steve blinked, surprised: he’d rather expected Stark to make a grand entrance from the spiral staircase that curled down from the second story.

Instead, Stark came through a comparatively modest wooden door off to the left. He was wearing a white button down and slacks and a bright, welcoming smile. 

“Ah, hello,” Steve said awkwardly. Then, “you look well.”

Stark’s eyes crinkled. “Thank you,” he said, a touch too impishly for Steve’s comfort. His eyes slid up and down Steve’s body, leaving warm trails. “You look very snazzy yourself. That blue is definitely your color.”

“Thanks,” Steve said stiffly. He suddenly felt ridiculous for wearing his robes with Converse, but it had been that, steel-toed boots, or his muddy hiking shoes. “I’m actually here to ask a favor.”

“Oh, hence the formality,” Tony said, doing his best to affect seriousness. “Ask away.”

Steve took a deep breath. “The fire wiped out most of the fableflower in the forest. I know you have extensive gardens here, so I was hoping you had stores you’d be willing to donate for this winter.” 

“Ah. Flashfever, yes.” Stark stroked his chin. “I was sorry to hear about how out of hand that fire got.”

Steve gritted his teeth. 

Stark clapped his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Of course you can have it,” he said. “In fact, why don’t you come have a look at the garden and see if I have enough?”

“No,” Steve said. “I’d rather talk about paying for the favor.”

For the first time, Stark’s ebullience faded for real. “You don’t need to pay,” he said. 

“You know as well as I do how serious it can be for one witch to owe another a favor,” Steve bit out.

“Yes, no, I just mean—” Stark stuttered, for once as flustered as Steve always seemed to be. “I just mean it doesn’t have to be a  _ favor. _ And if it were a favor I’d never ask you to repay it, anyway.”

“I’d rather just pay for the favor,” Steve frowned. 

Stark scratched the back of his head. “Right, ah. I suppose an errand is traditional?”

“Sure.”

“Cool, well... I have been needing some breath of a fish. I used up the last of mine a while ago. You’re kind of the forest guru, so maybe you can help me.” Stark gave him a very white smile. 

Steve smiled back as politely as he could. “I can definitely get the breath of a fish for you.”

“Great! When will you want to do that?”   


“Well, I’ve got art classes tomorrow, but the day after I’ll be able to go.”

“Wonderful. Does ten o’clock work for you?”

“Ten—I’m sorry?”

“To head out,” Stark clarified. “I’m coming with you, of course.”

“That’s  _ really _ not necessary,” Steve said, hoping his sudden dread wasn’t visible on his face. 

“I’m afraid I insist,” Stark said, and oh, if only Steve were the kind of witch that dabbled in hexes—there was that smug superiority, back in play. “I anticipate I’ll need more in the future, and it’ll be good to learn from an expert how to go about collecting some.”

“Fine,” Steve said flatly. Anything to end this conversation. 

* * *

Stark showed up for a trek in the woods as poorly dressed as ever, wearing a blue button down, slacks, and, once again, leather loafers that probably cost more per shoe than Steve’s monthly mortgage payment. 

“You know your shoes are going to get wet, right?” Steve asked. 

Stark beamed. “Only if my waterproofing charm doesn’t hold.”

Steve was much more sensibly dressed in a blue-grey t-shirt and joggers, with a flannel tied around his waist. He slung his backpack off his shoulders and unzipped it, showing Stark the clear, sealed mason jars inside. He’d used a thumbtack to inscribe a containment rune on each tin lid. 

“You have to have the containment rune to keep the magical components inside,” Steve said. “Otherwise the breath of a fish will just flow right back out with the water when you dump it.”

Stark nodded, listening avidly as he always did. Steve seriously doubted the information was actually new to him. 

The best pond for fish was uphill about three quarters of a mile, on what used to be a deer trail before Steve cleared it out better so he could take the kids’ science classes up there to look at tadpoles. He thought of it as the Tadpole Trail for that reason, but it didn’t have a formal name.

“This isn’t the full moon trail,” Stark said when they started on it, glancing around interestedly.

“Nope,” Steve said.

“It’s more overgrown,” Stark said, ducking under a cat briar. 

“It’s summer, everything is more overgrown,” Steve said wryly. “Haven’t you ever had to weed that garden of yours in the summer?”

“No,” Stark said. “I don’t really do much out in the garden. Jarvis—that’s one of my automatons—he takes care of the garden for me, so most of the stuff we grow there is his purview. Which means most of the gardening is food, actually. Jarvis really likes seasonal cooking, which is kind of funny because he doesn’t eat.”

“If I had a garden like that, I’d be out in it every day,” Steve said, before he could think better of it. 

Luckily, Stark just laughed. “It was grander for sure when my mother ran it,” he admitted. “She was a witch’s witch, she could untangle a hex with a mint leaf and a cluck of her tongue.”

“That was Maria Stark, right? With the children’s library named after her?”

“Yep,” Stark said. “What about you? Matrilineal or patrilineal witchery?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said, brushing through a patch of bentgrass. “Ma always said it could be either-or, ‘cause she had a cousin with witchcraft but my Da had a great-aunt. Spotty lineage, either way—the kind that just pops up every now and again.”

“And you really didn’t do a magistery? I thought for sure that you had, I remember you talking about studying for it.”

“My mother got sick,” Steve said shortly. “I dropped out.”

“Oh,” Stark said, and paused. “I’m sorry.”

Steve sighed. “It was a long time ago.” He ducked under another cat briar, this one hanging low with wickedly curved thorns. 

A second later, he heard a short scuffing sound, and then Stark was cursing a blue streak. Steve whipped around.

Stark had clearly tripped—he was well and truly caught in the cat briar, having pulled it half out of its tree with his weight. There was a bright red scratch on his cheek, and, no doubt, a couple holes in his nice shirt.

Steve put his hand on his hips. “So. You’ve been beaten by a plant.”

“Yeah, laugh it up,” Stark groaned. He grabbed the vine between two thorns and pulled it away gingerly.

“Careful,” Steve said. Stark hissed as the vine dug into his armpit. Steve sighed. 

“Sorry,” Stark said, as Steve bent to hold the vine away from his skin. 

“It’s fine. Happens often enough with the kids. I usually tell them they can yell whatever we want while we get the thorns out, but I don’t think they know as many fun grown-up words as you do,” Steve added. “Usually they say something like ‘butthole.’”

Stark snorted and finally stepped out of the cat briar, rubbing his hand across the scratch on his cheek. Blood smeared down his face.

Quite instinctually, Steve licked his thumb and used it to wipe the blood away. Then he blushed, mortified, as Stark stared at him in shock. 

“Sorry,” Steve blurted. “Habit. With the kids. Um. Hey, if you want to avenge yourself a little,” Steve tugged the rest of the vine down and found the end of it, steadfastly ignoring his own blush, and broke off the crisp new growth at the end. He held the stalk out to Stark, who took it.

“What do I do with it?” Stark asked, examining it. 

“Eat it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Tastes like split peas,” Steve added. “The kids really like eating them. It always cheers them up after they get the worst of a briar.”

“Good to know,” Stark snorted, and shrugged, and took a bite. “It does taste like split peas. Slightly undercooked.” He gave Steve a sideways sort of glance. “Any other fun little tidbits you usually share with the kids?”

“Just a 7-minute lecture about eating plants we find outside, even if we think we know them,” Steve said dryly, turning away. “Come on, let’s get there before noon.”

Stark was a companionable, if chattery, walking partner. Steve usually would have preferred to run the uphill trail, but he found he didn’t mind going slower when he could listen to Stark talk about a storm-stirring project he’d worked on during his magistery in atmospheric conjuration. 

Steve’s own aborted magistery had been in wild magics, supported by a bachelor’s in botany, so most of Stark’s ramblings were over his head. He found he could grasp the basics, though. 

“So what you’re saying is, with a little alchemical imbalancing you can  _ actually _ create lightning in a bottle,” Steve said.

“Yes! And then if you’re, you know, really careful with the dispersal, it’s actually a great source of renewable energy. And has many uses for spellcraft as well, I’m sure, but I’m mainly interested in replacing fossil fuels.”

“Wow,” Steve said. “That’s… wow.”

“Thanks,” Stark said, and he actually sounded a little embarrassed. “But it’s definitely a work in progress. The thing about the dispersal— it’s lightning, so it definitely wants to jump around, and it tends to explode things when it does that.”

“So you need to funnel it somehow?”

“Yeah, basically. I’ve been chewing at it a while, I swear I’m gonna crack it soon.”

Steve smiled. “I think I believe you,” he said, just as they crested the hill. 

The pond was decently sized—not too deep to take kids wading in, if you kept an eye out for snakes during the season for them. Bringing the classes up here to watch tadpoles grow into frogs was honestly one of Steve’s favorite things to do.

But there were also several species of fish, and that was what they were here for today.

Unslinging his backpack, Steve carefully removed a 16 inch bamboo embroidery hoop, purchased from the local craft store earlier that day. He wrote runes along the outside of the hoop in blue sharpie, cap in his mouth, and then pointed them out to Stark.

“Containment again. Luring to attract the fish, Disillusion to hide the hoop, and Binding to hold the runespell. Then you close the circle,” he said, tightening the screw on the embroidery hoop. The rings cinched together and the circle closed.

“Clever,” Stark grinned, and Steve shrugged. It wasn’t exactly catching lightning in a bottle.

After that it was a lot of sitting and waiting. Nonmagical people didn’t tend to appreciate this, but most magic was sitting and waiting—for an effect, for some other element to align itself properly, for potions to brew and runes to settle. And plants to grow.

For a while, Stark was as curious about the tadpoles—soon to be froglets—as any of Steve’s young hikers. He watched them dart around his feet with Italian leather loafers in one hand and fancy slacks rolled up to his knees. Steve sat down next to a patch of mountain mint, letting the shade cool him down. 

Something in Stark’s pocket beeped, and he took it out, tapped at it, and shoved it back in his pants. Steve squinted.

“Was that a cellphone?” he called idly.

“Yeah, a Nokia,” Stark replied. “Do you have one? I can give you my number.”

“I’ve got a landline,” Steve shrugged. “With the exception of kids aged six to ten, I don’t really come out here to talk to anyone anyway.”

“It’s for emergencies, Steven,” Stark said loftily, and Steve snorted. He felt in that moment almost fond of the other witch. 

“Like getting caught in a briar?” he teased.

“Yes!” Stark emphasized, and then made a displeased sound as his excitement apparently startled the tadpoles. “Hey, there’s about six little fish in the hoop, is that enough?”

“That was fast,” Steve said, standing to check. But sure enough, the hoop was getting almost too crowded, and Steve gave the backpack to Tony to hold, taking a jar out.

One by one, he opened each jar and lowered them into the water inside of the hoop, letting water slowly fill in until a fish was sucked inside. Then he sealed the lid to close the circle, unsealed it to let the fish out, and poked a hole in the lid to drain the water out. 

The water in the jar turned blue and glassy as more water was poured out. By the time it emptied, there were a handful of pale crystallic marbles in the bottom of the jar. 

Steve held it out to Stark. “Breath of a fish.”

“Perfect,” Stark said, smiling. He was looking directly at Steve.

They lingered a bit longer, chatting about tadpoles. Stark got a much more involved version of Steve’s usual “life cycle of a frog” spiel, and admitted to Steve’s delight that he’d never been able to stand doing any spells that involved using pollywogs. Steve teased him mercilessly, but Stark maintained that they were simply too cute to toss into a potion.

They headed back down soon after that. At first, Steve just enjoyed the company and the cooler temperature, admitting quietly to himself that he had perhaps misunderstood Tony entirely. 

Then he realized it was altogether too cool, despite the shade of the trees. It was midsummer, for love of lambsquarters—and definitely too dark for just after noon. He squinted up at the trees.

A flash of light sparked in the sky, barely visible through the canopy, and Steve stilled. Was that lightning?

His question was answered seconds later, when the sky cracked with thunder. 

“Oh, jeez,” Steve said. “Where the heck is this coming from?”

“It must be because I messed with the weather to call that storm over the fire,” Tony said absently, eyes flicking at the quickly darkening storm. “It’s been on the blink since then.”

Steve stared. “That was you?”

“Yes? You didn’t think I did nothing while the forest was on fire 12 miles from town, did you?” Tony joked, and then he saw the look on Steve’s face. 

Hurt flashed in his eyes quick as lightning. Then he turned away, jogging downhill. 

Steve followed silently, tongue like a weight in his mouth. He wanted to call out, but there was nothing he could say to comfort him that wasn’t a lie—he had misjudged Tony, terribly. If the slump of his shoulders were any indication, he wasn’t sure Tony wanted to hear it. 

The sky opened up second later with an onslaught of shockingly freezing rain, drenching them near-instantly. Steve swore and untied his flannel, pulling it over his head. He ran downhill, grabbing Tony by the wrist and leading him off the trail.

“Where are we going?” Tony chattered, following him as they tore through brush. The leaves under their feet were quickly turning slippery.

“My house,” Steve panted. “It’s closest.”

They crossed the full moon trail and kept going, emerging into the clearing of Steve’s backyard. Steve led Tony to the backdoor, knocking irately.

“Alright, alright,” the door said snidely. “Wipe your shoes on the rug.”

They came into the kitchen dripping on the tile. Steve let his flannel fall to the ground with a sodden flop, and then kicked his shoes off at the door. He set the backpack gingerly on a chair.

Tony was half-drowned, shivering under the blast of air conditioning. Steve grabbed towels from the linen closet and directed Tony to the living room. He lit the fireplace with a snap of his fingers.

Tony put his hands out to the warmth. “You don’t really like me that much, do you?” he asked.

Steve dropped another towel on Tony’s head. “I like you a lot,” he admitted, toweling off his own hair. “I just figured  _ out _ that I liked you today.”

Tony folded the towel over his face, groaning into the fabric. He sat down with his back to the fire. “I have been crazy about you for half a year.”

Thunder crashed. Steve’s ears burned. 

He sat down next to Tony, letting the flames warm his back and Tony warm his side. “It’s possible I’m not great at picking up on this sort of thing,” he confessed. “I thought you just liked to make fun of me.”

Tony shook his head, sliding the towel down to his neck. “I guess I could have been clearer.”

“I thought— oh hell, it occurs to me only now that when Barton took bets about when we would “get it on” he was  _ not _ talking about a fight.”

Tony laughed loudly, filling up the quiet room. He also took Steve’s hand, squeezing it in his own. “Do you want to go get coffee? Or dinner? Or look at tadpoles, or walk around in the woods eating things I didn’t know I could eat?”

Steve squeezed back. “Yes. Definitely,” he said, and thunder rolled lowly overhead. 

* * *

“And you know that big annual donation that funds the community center’s “Nature And You” program?”

Steve groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Don’t tell me. You pay my  _ salary _ ?”

“Well no, of course not,” Tony rushed. “Really I just referred the center to the woman who runs outreach at my mother’s charity foundation, and she decided the program was worth it, and I don’t have anything to do with it because ethically that would be really dubious if I wanted to keep certain avenues open.” 

He said the last words very quickly, and Steve squeezed his hand, swinging it gently between them.  _ Avenues _ , indeed. 

“Are you telling me where we’re going yet?” Steve asked gamely.

Tony pretended to think about it. “Well… I guess it won’t totally ruin the birthday surprise if I tell you we’re going to the community center.”

“Considering we’re walking in the door, I think you can get away with it.”

“We’re going to your classroom to get your birthday present,” Tony admitted, as they stepped into Steve’s classroom.

“The mystery unfolds,” he said dryly, but he scanned the room eagerly. “Is that—?”

There was a big tank on the opposite wall, amply set up with all the enrichment a carpenter frog could desire. 

Which was lucky, because there was a big brown carpenter frog in it. 

“Her name’s Polly,” Tony said, hands in pockets as he watched Steve duck to admire his new friend. “I thought she could be a sort of mascot for the kids. And I’m told carpenter frogs do better with companionship, so maybe you could pick out a friend.”

“I love her,” Steve said, turning to embrace his boyfriend. “I love  _ you _ .”

Tony grinned brilliantly, tucking his face into Steve’s neck. Steve, like the tender new growth of a briar, wrapped happily around his boyfriend.


End file.
